


War Stories

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Charlie Ships It, Deancest December, M/M, Minor Dorothy Baum/Charlie Bradbury, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester and Dean Smith are so different, it's hard to believe anyone could see them as the same person. Now that they've been thrown into the same universe, they are stumbling through making room for one another in a world too small for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Movie night at Charlie's place.

It happened the night of the disastrous attempt at a movie marathon to expand Castiel’s knowledge of cinematic greats. The arguments had commenced immediately upon arrival of those invited to Charlie’s apartment.

Kevin was shaking his head when Dean came through he doorway. “I thought we were doing classics! Childhood classics-that’s what we said!”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m not subjecting Dorothy to _The Wizard of Oz_ unless it’s Judy Garland.”

“Hey, guys. What’s going on?”

“My movie has already been vetoed!” Kevin cried.

“Go make the popcorn, Advanced Placement,” Dean ordered. He received a glare, but Kevin disappeared into the kitchen with a grumble. “Here’s mine.”

Charlie hugged him quickly, then looked down at his contribution. “Uh, Dean? We’re doing childhood classics.”

He blinked at her. “Yeah.”

She looked back at him for a moment, then allowed her red eyebrows to rise. “Oookay.” She waved at Sam, who was chatting with her girlfriend on the couch. “Dude, your brother brought _Scarface_.”

Sam laughed. “Nice! I got _The Godfather._ ”

Dean grinned at him. “Awesome.” For a minute there, he was afraid Charlie was insinuating that Al Pacino was not a childhood classic.

Charlie threw her hands up. “Guys! We’re supposed to be showing him kids’ movies!”

Sam shrugged at her. “Yeah. We must have seen these a thousand times by the time we were eight. Why, what kind of movies did you watch?”

Dorothy began to laugh, but she stood to wrap an arm around her lover. “Well, I had to take Charlie’s word for it that _Willow_ and _The Hobbit_ are good children’s stories. Movies weren’t actually a thing when I was a kid.”

“Bess and I brought _The Lion King_.”

“Thank you! Someone who got the memo!” Charlie grabbed the disc from Garth’s hands.

“You know that’s just _Hamlet_ with lions, right?” Sam snickered. “How is that any different from _Scarface_?”

“Because Scar the lion isn’t Scarface the Godfather!” Charlie barked.

Dean heard a familiar cackle coming from the kitchen. He smiled to himself. So Dean Smith and Sam Wesson had shown up. He was glad. He wanted to get to know them better. Since the near-Apocalypse, the alternative worlds had spilled over into one another, and Dean had been made aware of these two counterparts months ago. He thought he would hate them. But Sam-his Sam-had made him give them a chance, and they had grown on him. Dean Smith was so different from Dean Winchester that, other than their faces, they shared practically nothing. Except the laugh. When he wasn’t being a fake yuppie, his laugh sounded just like his own. It was actually Sam who hated them. Not both of them, but the Wesson character in particular. The two of them were far too similar for the comfort of either of them, and they did their best not to interact unless they had to. So it was nice that they had made the effort to come to this social gathering. Dean knew how awkward it must be, and he appreciated them for it.

Kevin called to Garth to help with the refreshments. “Dude! I can cook hotdogs. That’s mainly it!” he reminded them all.

Garth shot to his feet with scary grace. “Dean, did you leave Kevin alone in a kitchen? He nearly burned down my houseboat the one and only time he tried to make a real meal. Honey boo, can you come with?”

“Sure thing,” Bess purred back.

Dean wanted to gag, but Sam was glaring at him in warning. He rolled his eyes instead.

The tell-tale flutter of wings harkened the angel’s entrance. He frowned immediately. “I-I’m sorry. I…Charlie, Dean told me it was better to arrive outside in the hall, and then knock. I apologize.”

Charlie laughed. “Whatever, C-Dog. Get in here. What did you bring me?”

Castiel sighed helplessly. “I made the mistake of asking a brother for advice,” he murmured.

“Which one?”

The blue eyes were wide with fret. “Gabriel,” he admitted with another sigh. “As Sam can attest, older brothers are sometimes…misleading.”

The younger Winchester began laughing again, calling Dean’s attention to the fact that he, Charlie and Dorothy were all shooting tequila on the coffee table. “That’s diplomatic of you, Cas,” he called. There was already a slur in the man’s voice, and Dean wondered just how long they had been at it already.

“So what did you bring?”

Castiel’s coated shoulders shrugged uncomfortably. “Gabriel’s first suggestion was something about _Casa Erotica_. When I didn’t believe him, he got a serious look about him, and said that I needed to find Clint Eastwood with monkeys. Unfortunately, I could only find Clint Eastwood with apes, so I don’t know if he was being honest in his recommendation or deliberately attempting to confuse me.”

Dean shook his head. “Dude. We almost had Eastwood with monkeys. Cas, you’re hopeless.”

The slighter man nodded sadly. “I’m afraid I had to make a judgement call. I acquired a different film without knowing much about it.”

They all watched as Charlie accepted the disc, kissed Castiel on the cheek, and glanced down at the title. She laughed. “Cas, it’s perfect! Guys, the angel brought _All Dogs Go to Heaven_!”

“They do. It’s true. Except hellhounds, of course. All natural dogs. Although, due to the cover art, I am inclined to believe it is a work of fiction, not a documentary-"

Dean Smith barreled through the kitchen doorway then, his arm around Garth’s shoulders tightly, as if the lycanthrope were actually holding up the larger man. The two of them were laughing breathlessly. They looked like they might collapse at any moment. Dean Winchester watched them fondly. “What are you doing, Smith?” he called. “You corrupting this guy?”

“Me?” Smith laughed. “He’s the one brought the brownies! And he and his lovely bride are the only ones who know which ones are the tricked-out variety!”

Garth giggled. “I can smell the difference. Think you can?”

“Garth, you and Bess brought pot brownies? The hell kind of cult are you in these days?”

“Sam, we’re hanging with human friends through a full moon weekend. Don’t you think a bit of mellowing is in order?”

Charlie sighed. “I’m going to check on my party’s progress before we start a movie.”

As she disappeared down the hall, Castiel looked at Sam in confusion. “I do not understand. Is this not her party? Is she hosting two at once, within the same residence? That seems…exhausting.”

Dean laughed. Poor Castiel found social interactions of all kinds exhausting. Even as he listened to Sam’s explanation of an online role playing game, he was watching Smith talking animatedly with Garth.

The man was a wonder. Dean himself was fairly smooth, charming up to a point. But he had nothing on this man. It was like watching Gatsby work a room. He radiated confidence, and had a way of putting everyone at ease instantly when he wanted to. Dean also suspected he could do the opposite if he chose. He could flip a switch and become an intimidating force at his will. But Smith preferred to captivate his audience, and it was never long before all eyes were on him, and every spectator hung on his every word. For someone who did not even like to be singled out at a birthday party, Dean found it fascinating that this version of himself could handle the spotlight, could command the attention of a group with such finesse, wielding charm with the same unfailing precision as Dean himself wielded his .45. The man had a unique talent for making every person he engaged feel absurdly intriguing, as if he were genuinely engrossed in every word spoken to him.

He had once watched Smith match wits beautifully with both Sam and Charlie as they discussed the complexity of global internet legislation. Dean had brought the beer to the table, distributed them silently, and sat back to watch the debate. He had not pretended to be interested in the topic, nor did he have a thing to add, but found himself enthralled listening to Smith gracefully negotiate between Sam, the law student with an off-campus minor in hacking, who also had a very real need for anonymity, and Charlie, who had been both fired from her employment and pursued by the law because of her vehement belief in transparency and free access. Smith, regardless of his experience with tech companies, seemed to have no opinion of his own, but he navigated the arguments with as much ease as Dean himself might have had discussing the quality of his Impala.

It was that evening that Sam had nodded at him, and with a flick of his eyes told Dean to follow him into the kitchen. They both stood and carried empty bottles to the bin, and he looked up at his little brother questioningly.

“What’s up?”

“I just thought you might like to wipe the drool off your face,” Sam suggested, his own face tightly pulled into a smirk.

Dean’s eyes flashed with suspicion. The nice buzz he had developed over the course of the evening abandoned him instantly. “What’s that mean?”

“God, Dean. I knew you were an arrogant jackass who loved the look of his own face, man, but really? Smith?”

He wondered if this was how Castiel felt all the time. He stared and blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know.

Sam snickered at him, then turned to grab several beers out of Charlie’s cooler. “Okay. Whatever. Just don’t be surprised if the guy puts out a restraining order.”

“On who? What? Who is doing what?”

“Smith, you sick dumbass. You’re looking at him like you’re going to jump his bones the minute Charlie and I head out of the room.”

Dean stumbled a step backward. “Wha-what? What the hell, Sam?”

His brother’s hands flew up in defense. “I’m just saying, dial back the sickness, man. You get that he’s you, right?”

He felt his heart pounding. “Don’t be a dick,” he sputtered. He grabbed his beer and returned to the group, but he spent the rest of the evening brooding into his bottle, refusing to look in the direction of Dean Smith.

But that had been weeks ago. He had threatened to kick Sam’s ass if he brought it up again, and even though he caught a glimpse of a smirk on his brother’s face occasionally, he had decided to ignore him. As long as Sam was climbing into a bottle of tequila and Garth was breaking out brownies, he allowed himself to relax and watch Smith from a distance at this gathering. His own face or not, he was not Dean Winchester. Not at all.

Charlie returned with a big smile, and announced that her party was raiding at midnight, so she had time to watch just one Scar before she had to slip away from the company to go kick some troll ass. Castiel tilted his head at her, but said nothing.

Dean watched Smith touch the angel’s arm gently. He leaned forward in the chair to hear what was being said, as nonchalantly as he could. “Castiel,” Smith was purring. “She’s still talking about her game. She means she’s going to watch a movie, then meet up with her friends online for a little while, then rejoin us when she is done. She and her friends online will be pretending to hunt trolls.”

Castiel frowned, but nodded. “Thank you,” he rasped. “You’re kind to clarify for me. Sam often does, but…well, he has become somewhat inebriated, I believe.”

Smith’s hand was still gripping the angel’s arm, and Dean swallowed his beer too fast when he realized his counterpart was running his thumb across his friend’s bicep. He coughed violently, feeling fizz in his nose.

Several of the others turned to glance at him. “You all right, Deano?” Garth called.

Dean’s face reddened under the stares. “Course,” he choked out. “I’ve only been drinking for a few decades. I’ll have the mechanics figured out before the end of the night, promise.” He tried a half-smile, and hoped the others would go back to looking at one another instead of him.

Sam Wesson practically fell out of the kitchen. Dwarfed next to him was Kevin, who was giggling madly, but attempting to assist the big man in wandering to a chair. “Found them, Garth!” he called happily.

It was a nice distraction. Dean quickly put his bottle back to his lips and gulped down the rest of his beer. Perhaps he should be drinking tequila too. When he ventured to look up again, he saw the only pair of eyes on him now belonged to Smith himself. His breath caught in his throat.

“Dean,” Castiel was saying, “I was hoping you would tell me more about the geology of your home. Knowing that your planet’s evolutionary path differs very slightly from ours is fascinating to me. If we are not in a hurry to show the first film, I would like to hear from you regarding the Greater Canyon, for example.”

Smith’s eyes finally turned back to the blue gaze before him. He reached for Castiel’s hand, cradling it warmly between his own. He flashed an easy smile at the angel. Dean could tell that not even Castiel was immune to the man’s charisma. “Of course, Castiel. I don’t know much, but if you think I can help you, I’d be happy to answer any questions. Would you like to go out onto the balcony to talk about it where it is quieter? Unless you’d rather not separate from the group.”

Dean’s heart was in his throat. He was breathing shallowly, and kept feeling the need to cough even though his airway was no longer obstructed.

“I would welcome some fresh air. There are…quite a few humans in one small space here.”

“I thought you might appreciate the night air,” Smith breathed smoothly, caressing the hand within his. “Charlie has a beautiful view from here. And I would appreciate the time to ask you more about yourself, to learn everything you’d be willing to share with me about things you have seen and done. I would love to know how you see the stars out there.”

Castiel’s pink lips pulled into a smile. “It would be my pleasure.” He turned then to Sam, who was engaged in a discussion with Dorothy about lore in Oz and its surrounding regions. “Sam, would you mind letting me know when I’m expected to view the running?”

Sam turned to stare at him blankly. “The what?”

Dean knew right away where Castiel had gone wrong, but he did not trust his own voice at that moment.

“The running. Will we be participating in the marathon, or simply observing it? I was a witness to the first one, you know.”

Sam burst into laughter. Dorothy and Charlie shushed him, but even they were unable to hide their mirth.

Castiel was frowning again. But Smith tugged at his hand, and whispered to him gently as he led him from the room out onto the balcony. Just before the sliding door closed behind them, Dean watched realization splash across Castiel’s face.

His stomach was churning. All of the sudden, Dean felt sweat beading on his forehead. His face was flushed badly, and he thought for a moment that he was going to throw up. He pushed past Kevin, who had planted himself on the floor and was happily exchanging stories with Sam Wesson. Amazing that this Sam was just as much of a colossal lightweight as his own brother. He was willing to bet Kevin had eaten the exact same quantity of tainted confection as the larger man, but was affected in just the same way. Nice to know that Sam was a cheap date no matter what world they were in.

Once he was in the kitchen alone, he ran water in the sink, let it flow over his hands. He closed his eyes, hoping the sick heat would pass soon. To his surprise, he could hear voices through an open window to his left.

“It’s really amazing all the things you’ve seen, Castiel,” Smith was cooing. “I was told you were a warrior, a soldier of Heaven. I admit, I’ve been a bit in awe of your strength, your power.”

The angel gave his characteristically husky response. “I am no more than any of my brethren. In fact, I am the least among them most days.”

“I find that so difficult to believe. How must we look to you? So small, such petty things.”

“No, not at all. You are works of art, each of you. And each unique. Even you and Dean. Quite similar in looks and mannerisms, but your genetics are somewhat different.” 

“Are we? Different, I mean?”

“Of course. Your parentage is not the same. Ultimately, back enough generations, you are both from the same bloodline. But you are different.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured. “For one thing, he’s not an idiot.” The water splashed over his hands, but refused to soothe him. A weariness was setting in that he found all too familiar.

“Castiel, you are a singular creature. Just beautiful. But I suppose that means nothing to you coming from a human like me.”

“It is flattering, but I suppose I don’t understand what you mean by it,” the angel admitted cautiously.

Dean smiled sadly. “Just accept a compliment, you son of a bitch. He’s hitting on you, Cas. Just go with it.”

“I wonder what angels do for fun. I’m guessing a movie night isn’t it.”

He could practically hear Castiel roll his eyes. “Certainly not,” he agreed. “But, not unlike Charlie, we do participate in recreation.”

His body was heavy. He leaned his elbows onto the sink, and let his head drop. “Yes, Smith. They play reindeer games too. If Gabriel is any indication, you’re in for a treat once you manage to bag Cas.” Would it be that night? Or would it take longer? Would Dean have to watch the chase from the sideline for weeks even, before Smith obtained his prize?

“What sort of…recreation?”

“We have sport, just as you do.”

“I played tennis at Stanford, Castiel. I doubt you do that in Heaven.”

“No,” the angel acknowledged. “But we have other games.”

Dean’s heart felt as though it were being stretched through his throat as he listened to the next words.

“So…what about, you know…courting?”

That was it. Courting? Seriously? Courting? Who the hell did this guy think he was? Clark Gable?

“I’m afraid I had little experience in that area.” At last, Castiel’s voice sounded suspicious, uncomfortable. “I've never had occasion to court an angel.”

“What an intriguing coincidence,” Smith breathed. “Neither have I.”

Dean sighed and looked down at his hands miserably. Every inch of that other Dean was smooth. Disgustingly so. Irrepressibly so. Irresistibly so. He stared at the battle scars in his hands until his eyes blurred with tears.

It was devastating just how repulsive he was, when that man outside, with the exact same face, was so stunning. Sam was wrong. They were not the same person, not at all. Dean Smith was a gorgeous photograph, all light and warmth, and Dean Winchester was the dark, cold negative. It was an irony that could be no more cruel if Alistair himself had designed it, the fact that the twisted, scarred negative had somehow, without noticing, fallen desperately in love with the flawless work of art.


	2. Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie knows best.

It was five weeks after the first attempt at a movie marathon before Kevin's argument finally won out. As he put it, wouldn't it be in Dorothy's best interest to know every version of her father's story? Wasn't every interpretation of lore worth being exposed to? Didn't she ever get the teensiest bit curious what Oz would be like if it had Muppets?

Against Charlie's better judgement, when Dorothy asked what a Muppet was, she found herself giving in. "Fine, Kev. But if you trigger some kind of PTSD in my girlfriend, I'm going to break you."

Surprisingly, it was not Dean who suggested the Pink Floyd finale. Sam admitted to never having gotten around to the experience, and Charlie would not abide. By the end of the night, for better or for worse, Dorothy would know what Muppets were, and Sam would be stoned and creeped out.

She texted Dean Smith again about an hour before the gathering was meant to begin. He responded by knocking on the door while she was pushing send.

"Yay!" She threw the door open and hugged him enthusiastically. This Smithy character, as the gang had started calling him, was not her Dean. But she liked him. He had this fun way about him of acting truly interested in every word she said, on every topic. He actually listened when she went on about how annoying some guild members were and the complexities of the new D&D edition, which she wasn't yet sure she liked, and how difficult it was to have a true, definitive favorite captain, since every series was so different. He also listened to her sigh about Dorothy's kisses, about how fiercely she wanted to protect a woman who could clearly take care of herself, and how much she missed her mother. Smithy was one of the kindest and gentlest men she had ever met, and yet he had a biting sense of humor he did not break out often that reminded her of her Dean. She had only just stopped thinking of then as IRL Dean and AU Dean. Only Kevin and Sam got the joke anyway, and Sam always gave her a look like he wanted to throw up when she said it, probably because he knew she also thought of him as IRL Sam.

Dean released her from the hug, and put his hand on her arm warmly. "Hey, Queenie. Where's Dot?"

For some reason, it always made her laugh when Dean called Dorothy that. "She's getting some drinks."

"Okay. How can I help?"

"I'm pretty much set. I got up before noon today, so I'm finished with everything."

He lifted his hands in protest. "I was supposed to help you set up. Wait. Did you lure me here to seduce me? I'm flattered, but you know I don't swing that way."

She laughed brightly. "Damn! Foiled again!"

"Also I'm afraid of Dot. Dot could hurt me."

Charlie's eyes sparkled. "I know, right? She's so badass. And hot.”

"So why am I here?"

She grabbed his hand, shouted, "Intervention!" and pulled him to the couch.

Smithy's eyebrows shot up. "For what?"

She patted his hand and tried to look sympathetic. "Smithy, you have a problem and you don't even know it."

"I don't drink, Charlie. Almost at all. In fact…only when I’m with you, now that I think about it. Too many carbs.”

She waved him away with a delicate hand. "No, Smithy. Not alcohol. Sweetie, you're trying to bang an angel."

He stared at her. "Wouldn't you? If you hadn't found your fictional heroine, I mean? I bet it rains sulfur when he climaxes."

She screwed up her nose at that. "Pretty sure that's a bad thing."

"I don't care," he responded defiantly. "It's how I want to die."

"Okay then, crazy man."

"Why do you care all the sudden? I've been trying to peel Cas out of those trousers for a month now."

"And how's that going?"

"Excruciatingly. Thanks for asking."

"Uh huh. And in the meantime?"

He glared at her. "Are you insinuating I'm backed up?"

Charlie shrugged. "I wasn't. But you are."

Dean sucked in his breath through his nose and put on a bitchface even Sam would have been proud of. "Doesn't feel like we've only been friends for a few months, does it? It's almost like you've been a pain in my ass for years by now."

"Focus."

"On what?" He was practically shouting. "On not getting laid? On you being the only pain I've had in my ass for months?"

"Wow. Okay. Didn't need to know you bottom."

He rolled his eyes grumpily. "Depends on my mood. Some days I'm lazier than others."

"Dude, I sleep with a woman and you are the gayest thing I've ever met."

He nodded, pushed his lips out and stared past her at nothing for a moment. "Thanks," he sighed absently. At last, he threw his hands up. "I want the angel. He's a fracking angel."

"You sound like a child. Possibly a cylon.”

At that, he flopped dramatically into the cushions, and pulled one over his face. "I want the angel!" he whined loudly.

Charlie rolled her eyes and stood. "Beer?"

"Yes, please," he called from under his pillow. "You got any craft?"

"I know what you like, dumbass." She emerged from the kitchen with two beers, and looked at him sprawled on her couch with exasperation.

"Smithy. Dean. You gotta nut up, dude. Aren't you some kind of business shark? Some power salesman or whatever? Some corporate douchebag?”

He did not move. ”So?"

"So didn't they teach you at Harvard business school to cut your losses and move on when it's hopeless?"

"No. It's Stanford and they taught us to get what we want no matter what the obstacle."

"Did your professors ever mention what to do when you're wearing your hand out waiting on a clueless angel?"

"I hate you." The voice was muffled.

"Just saying that carpal tunnel is a real thing."

"Can we please talk about anything else?"

Charlie watched the pink Ralph Lauren-clad chest breathing shallowly. "You going to come out of my pillows?"

"Will you be gone when I do?"

"I live here."

"Then no." Smithy pulled the pillow tighter onto his face. "I want to hear about how your raid went last night."

Charlie laughed softly. The man was pitiful. "No you don't."

He removed the pillow and looked up at her. "I really do. And not just because I want this conversation to have never happened."

She resisted the temptation to pour out every awesome detail about how awesomely awesome her character had been the night before. Dean Smith did that to people. He managed to turn every conversation onto the person he was speaking to, and make them feel like there is nothing in the world he would rather be discussing than what was on their mind. She had to stay firm. The force was strong with this one. "Smithy, no. Bad Smithy."

He let out a whine. "Charlie, don't scold me for not getting laid."

"That is the most pathetic request I've ever gotten.” She sighed. “Dude, I’m not scolding you. I’m just trying to save you from yourself. Are you totally in hot, crazy love with Cas?”

Dean stared at her. “In love with him? God no. He’s just hot. And a freaking angel. I’m just trying to have epic celestial sex.”

“Right.” Charlie pushed her hair out of her face. “And while you’re obsessing over that, you’re missing out on some of the most epic human sex you can imagine.”

This seemed to pique the man’s interest, and he sat up straighter. “I beg your pardon? Charlie, I was serious about Dot being able to take me. I really think she could.”

“Of course she could. I’m not talking about me, stupid.” 

He pulled unconsciously at his shirt’s cuff links, and cocked his head slightly. “Wait, who are you talking about?”

“Smithy, who is the best-looking, sexiest human guy I hang out with?”

He shrugged. “I assume you don’t mean me?”

“You’re the best-dressed. That’s not the same thing. But you’re close.”

Smithy shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry. It’s like you’re trying to communicate with me but failing so horribly I can’t even tell. Who are we talking about? Not Sam. God, he’s too freakishly tall, and he looks exactly like Wesson. It would be way too awkward. And if you’re talking about Kevin, he’s adorable, and it might be fun to corrupt him, but he’s like twelve years old. Also pretty sure he’s exponentially straight, which leaves me with very few options, and I’m not sure how much my knees can take. I’m getting too old for that.”

“Wow. Ew.”

He began chewing on his lip, and shook his head to indicate he had no idea. “One of your Moondor guys?” he guessed.

A palm smacked into his forehead. “For serious? C’mon, Smithy! Dean Winchester!”

Charlie enjoyed the way Smithy seemed about to fall off the couch. He startled backward, and caught himself clumsily on the coffee table. After a moment of fumbling, he grabbed hold of his beer and gulped it down without a breath. Before he could open his mouth again, the doorbell rang, and he dropped the bottle into his lap.

“Shit!” he shrieked. “Dammit, this is Burberry!”

Charlie stood to get the door, and glanced back over her shoulder. “Why the hell are you wearing Burberry London to my house for a movie?”

He shrugged unhappily, staring down at the drops of beer from his mostly empty bottle. “I was hoping Cas would be here.”

She rolled her eyes and flung the door open to reveal Dean Winchester in ripped jeans and a gray henley, sporting a shadow from two five o’clocks ago, and hair that spiked up carelessly as if he had not bothered even to run his hand through it after his last shower. If he weren’t her unofficially adopted big brother figure and if she were even the slightest bit attracted to men, she was sure she would want to jump his bones. How the hell had Smithy not even thought of it?

“Dean! You’re early!”

Dean looked down at his watch. “I am? Sorry. I kind of thought I was running late. Guess I forgot what time you even told me. You need help setting up? Want me to go for drinks or something to stay out of your hair?”

She opened the door wider to expose the sharply dressed idiot in her living room who was patting irritably at his crotch.

Charlie was certain she had never seen Dean Winchester blush like that before. He stumbled back a step. “I, uh…Beer? You want beer? Or liquor? I want liquor. I’ll go get liquor. Dorothy drinks tequila, right? I’ll get tequila. And whiskey. Maybe a lot of whiskey.”

Before Charlie could tell him that her girlfriend was already on a drink run, he had bolted down the hall, trying to look as casual as possible while tripping over his own boots. Without a word, she turned to Dean Smith and raised a red eyebrow.

Smithy was smiling strangely. “Dean Winchester, huh?”

She smirked at him.

He nodded to himself, and his face took on a thoughtful expression. “Dean Winchester. Huh.”


	3. Dinner Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How different are these Deans anyway?

Dean Smith had never had a card declined in his life. He stared at the machine in horror, and did not move for a full minute.

"Buddy. That means you either ain't got enough money or your pin is wrong."

"My pin is not wrong."

"Then you must not have enough-"

Smith blinked at him. "That isn't possible. Your machine is wrong."

"I'm telling you, buddy, I ran it twice already. It's declined."

The flesh on his neck was beginning to burn. He wished this man would stop calling him buddy. "I know the balance of every account I own down to the penny as a running tab in my head. I know every cent in every aspect of my portfolio. I can tell you today's exchange rate for five Asian nations, and what markets closed up yesterday, by how much, all over the world. I know how much money I have in my main checking account."

The guy behind the counter shrugged at him. "Then you been hacked, dude. I don't know what to tell you. You got another form of payment?"

Smith snarled at him as he reached for his money clip and produced crisp bills.

"Have a better day, buddy."

He growled audibly.

Once he had climbed into his Prius, he angrily snapped off Morning Edition mid-sentence and grabbed his phone. A moment of furious tapping later assured him that he did indeed have the correct amount of funds in his account.

His shoulders dropped two inches with relief. But his frown remained. Could he have possibly gotten the pin wrong? That had never happened before. Maybe Charlie was right that he was getting to be a mess. He certainly had found it hard to concentrate lately.

Since the epic after-shocks of the near-Apocalypse (as vaguely explained by Castiel) had somehow pushed two universes together, dumping some folks from his into this one and some from this one into his, Dean Smith felt as though he had adjusted extremely well, considering everything. Smith believed in dealing with what was in front of him, whether that was a meeting of sales and marketing associates or a dipping economy or the ghost of a long-dead businessman unhappy with employee work ethic. Since Castiel had explained that the effort it would take to fix the merged universes would far exceed their resources, he had called the Apocalypse a bad day and moved on. In contrast, he had heard that his former boss Mr. Adler had crossed over too and had begun hearing voices in his head, and now resided at a facility wearing all white.

Things had been chaotic at first. His finances were all in order, he found, but his home was suddenly occupied by a couple insisting they had lived there for years. He had called up Sam Wesson, who had experienced the opposite. He had his apartment but absolutely no other assets. Poor Wesson had lost everything, even his social security number, and his entire financial situation consisted of the crumbled five dollars in his pocket. They had done what seemed prudent. Smith, who still went by Dean then, had moved in and paid Wesson a generous rent. It had been a surprisingly good arrangement.

Smith had tried contacting his father, and had gotten a strange message about an FBI agent who could not come to the phone. His mother's phone and Jo's had been disconnected. Wesson had tried calling his girlfriend Madison, and had reached an animal hospital instead, where a vet named Amelia had reacted very strangely to hearing his voice, but had confirmed that there was no Madison. After driving through several states to look for their families and friends, they had ended up back at Wesson's apartment, out of ideas. On a whim, Smith had awoken in the middle of the night to pounce on his laptop. It was not difficult to track down the men from the Ghostfacers video. Wesson had hacked into some Amazon royalties account or another and had found an address.

Upon their arrival on the doorstep, the scruffy guy named Ed had been visibly flustered. "Sam! Dean! Guys, what are you even doing here?"

Some massive confusion later, Smith and Wesson had been given a phone number for a Sam Winchester and sent on their way with more haste than Smith deemed polite, and the warning that "Dean is a real douche. Try talking to Sam first. He's a slightly better choice if you don't mind being talked to like you're the biggest idiot on the planet. They both suck. But they know stuff."

Months, nearly a year later, quirky things kept popping up at random. Smith had gotten into his car a month ago, and all his pre-sets had been changed to classic rock. He liked Zeppelin as much as the next guy, but he had immediately changed two back to the nearest NPR station and the financial news station. Wesson had mentioned losing clothes recently, and had found a pair of boots under his bed that he had never owned, but which miraculously fit his enormous feet. Somehow, little things were still shifting, like this new universe was moody and possibly sulky, being passive-aggressive about the way it had been treated.

So when he was staring down at his debit card, it occurred to him that he might need to call Dean.

“What?” the man growled into the phone.

Smith was surprised. He thought Dean was as much of a morning person as he was. Sam and Wesson were generally the ones who needed to be yanked out of bed like they were huge fifteen years olds. “You still asleep?”

“I just got to sleep.”

Smith checked his clock. “Dean, it’s almost 9:30.”

The growl was back. Smith wondered if that was how he had sounded to the man behind the retail counter earlier. “Yes, Smith. We have clocks in this ‘verse too. And like I said, I just got to sleep. Came in after six covered in freaking shifter skin all over me. Best part? It was in Sam’s form when it slipped its skin. So I was basically covered in my brother’s skin. Sam had to reset my damn shoulder for the hundredth time, and I’m pretty sure if he has to do it one more time, it’s just going to break off entirely. Then I had to detail my car because the psycho freak died trying to get the door open to steal her, and the window was open so there was splatter inside my Baby. So, yes, Smith,” he said again, “I got to sleep about fifteen minutes ago. How was your morning?”

“I’ll call back.”

He heard a deep sigh, and a grunt. He found himself imagining Dean sitting up in bed in just boxers, and pinching at the bridge of his nose. Because that was exactly what he knew the man was doing. “No. It’s okay. I’m awake. I got to cover some tracks with some surveillance cameras anyway. Should have done it before I lay down. What do you need, man?”

Smith licked his lips carefully. It hardly seemed important now.

“Smith?”

“Um. If you were going to pick a four digit pin, what would it be?”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then he heard Dean clearing his throat. “Dude? There was shifter blood. In. My. Car.”

“I’m sorry. I just think one of my pins was changed to yours. You know how things keep going weird? I can’t access my money.”

Another sigh. “Okay. Yeah, okay, that could happen. Cas says there is some chatter about anomalies, little irritating things, mostly, but up in Michigan, an entire dam apparently just disappeared off the planet. That caused a bit of an issue at the local level.”

Smith cringed. “I bet it did. Anybody hurt?”

“Not as far as we can tell. Okay, a pin? Four digits?”

“Yeah. Like, if you were going to need a four digit code, what would you choose?”

“1-9-1-1. Maybe something else, but that’s what I would most likely have picked.”

He committed it to memory, then nodded. “Okay. Why 1911?”

“Colt M1911 A1 .45 ACP. One of my favorite guns. 1-8-9-7 is one I use sometimes. It’s my 1897 Winchester sawed-off. But I use 1911 most of the time.”

“A Colt M1911…Okay. I speak three languages, and that ain’t one of them. But 1911 and 1897. I’ll try those. Thanks.”

He was about to hang up when he heard Dean’s voice again. “You speak three languages?”

“Sure. Well, my French is pretty rusty. I can order drinks and hail a cab, but I don’t know if I could get myself through a sales contract negotiation without a translator anymore. Fortunately, I don’t see that being a problem in the near future.”

“Damn,” Dean breathed. “I can’t keep a couple dozen syllables of Latin from coming out in the wrong order. It’s funny, isn’t it?” he said in a quiet voice that told Smith he did not really find this funny at all. “Wesson is just as smart as Sam. Trained different, sure, but Wes can hold his own with my little brother.”

“Not that they can stand each other.”

“Yeah. But he could. Sam and Wes are freaking genius level. And you too. It’s just funny how the two of them could be so similar and you and me so…Did you know I dropped out of high school?”

Smith leaned back in the front seat of his car. He had not known, but he was not as surprised as maybe he should have been. “Your circumstances were different.”

“But it’s funny, isn’t it? I mean, we ain’t the same. You got different parents.”

“I was raised by Ellen and Bobby, but you know I was adopted. I don’t have any way of knowing who my real parents were.”

“Cas says our genetics are slightly different, but that it is almost negligible. I don’t get what that means, but whatever. We ain’t the same. But how did Sam and Wes end up so similar, on mostly equal footing, and you and me…”

He frowned as he realized what Dean was saying. “What, you think that because I have more formal education, I’m smarter than you?”

Dean’s voice was strained. His normal confidence was increasingly failing as he continued. “I think that’s pretty obvious, don’t you? I mean, Sam and Wes-I get that. It’s like they are the exact same guy raised different. Different life experiences, I get it. But you and me? Dude, it doesn’t make any difference how I was raised. I could never have handled learning a language, let alone three. It’s embarrassing how many times I might have gotten myself killed because I screwed up some Latin and had to rely on Sammy to save my ass.”

Smith's eyes closed. He had never heard Dean talk like this before. In one way, he was absolutely right. There was a world of difference between them. For one thing, Dean Smith had never doubted his own abilities in that way. He was not completely unfamiliar with insecurity, however. He had felt inept on a regular basis in this new environment, and a year of living here had shown him just how unprepared for certain realities he truly was. “Dean-"

The other man forced a laugh. “No, forget it. I just think it’s funny, that’s all. It’s like the way you talk to people.”

“The way I what? How do I talk to people?”

“I’ve been lying my way through my whole life, charming the asses off of everyone I’ve ever needed anything from, coaxing secrets out of folks daily. But that’s all an act. You’re the real thing.”

Smith’s eyes flicked open. It was the first time since he had stumbled into this world with a few hundred other individuals that anyone had used the word real to refer to him instead of Dean Winchester. He had even gotten to the point where he actually thought of himself as Smith instead of Dean, as he had for his entire life. He and Wesson were the only ones who bothered calling one another Dean and Sam anymore, and even that was fading as time went on. They were Smith and Wes. His friend was even using Wes as his first name on all his fake identifications now, with various last names attached. Even though he still went by Dean Smith professionally, he found himself introducing himself to new people socially as Smith.

So for Dean to refer to him as the real thing, it seemed completely inaccurate, almost silly. This was Dean Winchester’s world, not his. That had become painfully clear over eleven months of negotiating this new reality. He was still a tourist here, as much as he had tried to fully integrate. He might speak a few languages, but there would always be a bit of culture shock.

“Dean,” he said finally, “I think you’re tired. I was the real thing back home. I’m still the real thing on the sales floor, and in a marketing meeting. But when it comes down to it, I’m a pale imitation in your world. That doesn’t change because you’ve learned I know more Mandarin than you.”

There was another pause, and when Dean spoke again, it was barely above a whisper, and only after he had cleared his throat twice. “Smith? Dean. I’m not going to get back to sleep. Sam went back to the bunker. And I’m not far from you. Want to get some breakfast somewhere? If you got time, I mean?” 

Smith realized he had never actually been completely alone with Dean in person before. And after what Charlie had said…

“It’s cool if you don’t. I still got to wipe those feeds and close a few accounts I’ve used over the past week-"

“No, I’d like to do that. Get breakfast. Maybe you can tell me about your hunt. You called the thing a shifter-a shape shifter, I guess. I’d like to hear all about that.”

Dean’s laugh sounded almost nervous. “No you wouldn’t. Neither of us would be able to eat. They’re freaking gross. Only thing worse is maybe a ghoul. Or a witch-since witches actually choose to be disgusting. No, I’ll tell you some stories, but nothing that’ll put you off your latte.”

“I want to hear all your stories,” Smith heard himself say.

Dean cleared his throat one last time, then rattled off an address and name of a diner, coughed something about seeing him within the hour, and hung up, all in under a few seconds.

Smith looked at the phone for a moment, and licked his lips. It was a habit he had picked up spending so much time with Castiel. Smith tended to mirror those he spoke with, without even realizing he was doing it. Charlie was right. He had been pining over the angel like a junior high girl, and it was getting him no where. It was like Castiel was either completely and utterly clueless or trying to be kind by pretending not to know what Smith was trying to do because he was not interested. He liked Castiel, certainly, and enjoyed his time with him, but if he were honest with himself, it was simply the challenge of bagging an angel that kept him pursuing that goal. Perhaps the angel was not the best use of his time.

Charlie had given him a hundred elbows to the ribs two weeks ago when they had all met at her place for another movie night. She had spent her entire evening pointing out every time Dean Winchester had so much as glanced in his direction, every time he had offered to get him a new beer, every time he had laughed at something Smith had said. Even after the gathering, the bruises in his side had kept him up most of the rest of the night, thinking about the possibilities if Charlie were right about Dean’s attraction to him.

It was a little bit crazy, considering the odd way they resembled one another. But even Castiel had pointed out on several occasions that they were not the same person, not really. When he looked at Dean, he rarely got the odd impression he was looking into a mirror, the way Wes complained about looking at Sam.

Wes hated the way Sam kept his hair so long, the way he wore only plaid or cheap suits, the way he said “anyways.” Smith was certain that Wes would one day have an aneurism, entirely brought on by Sam saying “anyways.” The few times they had combined their talents for technology to work a case, they had resented sitting near one another in their small apartment, their gangly limbs taking up most of the room. Smith had watched them brooding over their identical laptops with stiff backs and pursed lips, and had seen every time one had lifted his eyes to look in disgust at the other, then look away immediately when the other raised his own gaze. As much as Wes pointed out every detail that annoyed him about Sam, Smith knew it bothered him the most how similar the two men were.

It was different with Dean. Sam’s brother had been in the same room during the techie sulk-off, but had ignored the snippy comments the two men at the table had shared. He had split his attention between the football game on television and a very old book he was scribbling notes in occasionally. Unlike Smith, he did not seem to be absorbing any of the seething tension from Sam and Wes a few feet away. In fact, he seemed completely at ease, feeding Sam periodic details about the game and the details of the case.

Wes had once referred to Dean Winchester as simple. “He’s kind of a brute, right? Good guy, of course, but I mean, Sam’s the brain, he’s the brawn. He’s definitely good at what he does. But he doesn’t really do much of the analyzing, the deep thinking. He finds things to break, and gets Sam to tell him which weapon to use to do it. He isn’t like you, Dean. He’s just not that deep. Pretty simple guy. Cheeseburgers, Chevys and chicks. That about covers everything but hunting for him. Must be nice, actually.”

Smith had listened, nodded, and stayed quiet, but he had found himself disagreeing vehemently. In fact, ever since that conversation, Smith had begun to wonder if he himself weren’t the simple one, the shallow version of them. It had not been a pleasant thought.

***

Dean was trying not to call Smith to cancel their plans. How stupid was this? Going out in public with his carbon copy was always awkward anyway, and he could feel his stomach protesting his anxiety after so little sleep. He had driven for two days to get to this hunt from where he had been in Florida, decreasing the membership numbers in a coven. He had met Sam in the town, then they had spent another two days tracking and killing that sadistic shifter. Since they were so close to home, Sam had returned to Lebanon the night before after patching his brother up, and Dean had gotten himself a motel room at six in the morning just to use the shower and take a nap. His stomach insisted that it would rather he slept than ate, and if that was not a sign of severe exhaustion, Dean had never known one. So he could only assume that the stupidest of all demons had possessed him long enough to invite Dean Smith out for breakfast.

He dropped his head into his hands wearily. It wasn’t as though this were a dinner date, he reminded himself. He was sharing some bacon and coffee with a guy, not taking him out for wine and dancing. What was wrong with him? Besides, it was Dean freaking Smith. They had hung out a hundred times over the last year, and they shared the same face!

Of course, that wasn’t really true. Dean’s face had far more lines on it than Smith’s did. His own eyes were older. Smith had never been to Hell. It always came back to that, really. Dean was forty years older than Smith, had endured decades of torture, and had spent at least weeks inflicting it before Castiel had pulled his ass out of the fire. He would never really know how long he had spent in that situation. There was no way to tell one day from another when there was truly no rest for the wicked.

Dean stared at the ice in his water glass without seeing it, his mind tormenting him with images he had shoved back for years, which only seemed to haunt him when he was asleep or should be. When the hand touched his shoulder, he realized he was gripping the glass hard enough to break it, and he let go to whirl around defensively.

Smith lifted his hand quickly. “Sorry! I guess you’re not the sort of man you want to sneak up on, are you?”

He jumped out of his seat. “Smith! No, it’s fine. I was just…I was just thinking. Thought I’d see you come in.”

The other man was watching him carefully as they both sat down at the booth. “You okay?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

Smith shrugged, more with his mouth and eyebrows than his shoulders, and picked up his menu. Without looking at Dean, he responded quietly. “I don’t know. Something about blood in the Impala and shifter skin in your hair or something.”

A tiny smile crept onto Dean’s face, and he could feel his muscles relaxing. “Yeah,” he answered. “Something like that. Wasn’t the first time. Baby and I needed baths anyway.”

The other man treated him to a flash of white teeth inside a broad smile. “I will never get used to how casual you are about getting gut-splattered.”

Dean shrugged. “Better his guts than mine.” He jutted his chin at the menu. “See anything you like? Obviously, I’m buying.”

A flush of pink crossed Smith’s freckled cheeks. “Well, that’s new for me.”

“You could try my pin here if you really want to.”

He shook his head and ducked a bit into the menu. “No, I’ve had enough humiliation for one day, thank you. I’ll check your pin from the privacy of my own apartment, over the phone.”

The corner of Dean’s lips twitched. “What, you’ve never had a card decline on you before?”

Smith’s eyes shot up. “Of course not!”

He took a sip of his water, smirking. “Must be nice,” he muttered gruffly.

“You don’t even use your own money.”

“Sure I do. Cash. I’m damn good at pool.”

“I mean your own credit.”

Dean lifted his gaze and shook his head a bit to indicate that it was not entirely a true statement. “It wasn’t anyone else’s either.”

The waitress floated up to their table with a giddy expression on her face. “Oh my god!”

“Please don’t,” Dean whined under his breath. Smith smiled at him sympathetically.

“Are you two twins?”

Dean’s face dropped back into his hands.

“Yes, we are. Same birthday and everything!”

The other man parted his fingers to stare at him.

“That’s amazing!” the young woman shrieked.

“Isn’t it?” Smith gave her a warm smile, and checked her name tag. “Jenna, I have to say, you’re very perceptive. A lot of people say we don’t look anything alike.”

“Really?” she gushed.

“It’s true. But you, you had us made at a glance. You’re obviously quite smart.”

The woman’s face lit up. “You think so? I don’t think most people think so.”

Dean watched with interest as Smith reached out to take the girl’s hand tenderly in his. “Don’t believe them,” he breathed in a sensual voice that made Dean’s eyebrow creep upward.

The woman was completely flustered by this point. “That’s so sweet of you! I, um…I guess I should get your order?”

Smith gestured toward Dean, who cleared his throat. “Um. Yeah. A, uh, black coffee and the southwestern omelet and bacon. Thanks.”

“And for you, sir?” she lilted.

“Call me Smith, Jenna. All my friends do.”

She beamed at him, and Dean rolled his eyes upward.

“I’d like a vanilla latte, nonfat, and a turkey bacon, lettuce and tomato on wheat toast, with fruit on the side. Thank you, Jenna.” He treated her to a wink and a smile, flashing white teeth and then turned back to Dean as she stumbled away gleefully. He found Dean staring at him. “What?”

“Dude, do you just do that crap without even noticing you’re doing it?”

Smith’s head tilted in a way that reminded him of Castiel. But the small smile was far too confident to be the angel’s. “I guess I don’t know what you mean.”

“The way you flirted with that girl.”

The other man squared his shoulders with Dean’s, and leaned a bit over the table. “I wasn’t flirting, Dean. I’m not even attracted to most women. You know that. I was just being social.”

Dean snorted. “The hell you were. That girl is ready to pull you into the walk-in freezer.”

 Smith shrugged and smiled. “That’s her, not me,” he said simply. “But let’s get back to you.”

The hunter leaned back in the booth a little, suddenly very aware of how close their faces were across the table. “What about me?”

“You were going to tell me your stories.”

“I don’t know. What do you want to hear?”

“I’d love to hear as much as you’ll share with me about things you’ve seen and done.”

Dean blinked and frowned sharply, in a cringe.

Smith sat back now too. “What’s wrong, Dean?”

He rubbed his hand down his face, and glanced at his counterpart out of the corners of his eyes. “You said the exact same thing to Castiel.”

  “Did I? When?”

When you were trying to get in his pants a month ago, Dean thought wildly. He stretched his sore neck and avoided Smith’s eyes. It was such an innocent thing to say. Why did it feel like Smith had just punched him in the throat? “When…” He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back in a gesture even he recognized as physically defensive. “When you were flirting with him at the party a month back.”

He had tried to sound casual, but his voice had distorted it into something of a quiet accusation. Smith looked startled for a moment, then he shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t remember.” He tried to look into Dean’s gaze, but the man dipped his head to give his attention to the dessert advertisement on the table. In his peripheral, he could see Smith’s face pull into a tense smile. “Dean, did it bother you that I may have flirted with your friend? If I over-stepped some boundary, made something awkward between you and Castiel, I promise I never meant to. It never really even occurred to me, but I guess watching a guy with your face hit on your angel buddy must have been weird. I’m really sorry.”

Dean felt guilt hit his stomach hard. Smith had done nothing wrong, and he had no right to make him feel as though he had. “No, man,” he sighed, looking up finally. “No, it’s fine. I mean, yeah, it was weird. But this whole crap has been weird. And honestly? My life would be weird if it weren’t weird.”

Smith looked for a moment as though he were trying to process Dean’s words, then he nodded. All of the sudden, his face fell entirely. “Oh my god, Dean. Shit, you weren’t…I didn’t…You weren’t trying to hook up…with Cas…”

His calloused hand flew up. “No! No. Shit, no.” He laughed nervously. “You kidding? Dude would probably accidentally rain down sulfur if he ever actually climaxed.”

When Smith began to laugh, it involved his entire body, beginning at his mouth, working its way down his neck and shoulders, down his arms to his hands, which braced his forehead as he leaned onto the elbows on the table. Dean could feel the brush of the man’s foot as he shook with mirth. It made Dean happy in a very basic way.

“Just saying,” Dean added for no reason. His own lips pulled into a small smile, and he felt himself relaxing again.

His friend gradually brought himself back under control, snickering to himself. “Yeah. Okay. So it isn’t Cas. It isn’t you. Is it me? Does it freak you out that I’m bisexual with a strong lean toward facial hair?”

The way he said it, Dean could not help but laugh. “Does it freak you out that I’m bisexual with a strong lean toward cleavage?”

Smith’s eyes lowered, and he let out one last chuckle, then sighed. “You know, when I first met Wesson, I thought he was gay.”

“Sam?” Dean shook his head. “He just comes across that way.”

“Yeah. Well, I thought he was hitting on me. In an elevator. Wesson was literally the least socially viable person I had ever met. All legs and arms and awkward.”

Dean’s smile was that of a fond older brother. “Yeah. Well, my Sam isn’t that far off. He never got to have any real relationships growing up, you know? The only females he ever met were the ones we were shoving stakes and daggers into. We were never in a school more than three weeks at a time. Took the guy that long to be able to say hi to a girl, and we’d be on the road again. He doesn’t work well around women in general. They always like him, and then he’s an idiot. Which is especially dumb because he’s such a freaking brilliant nerd.”

“Wes was the same. Is the same, I guess. Probably played more Dungeons and Dragons than Charlie. So when he talked to me in the elevator, it was seriously the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had. I think part of that, though, was that he seemed really familiar. I didn’t realize it then, but looking back on it, it was like I was seeing a long-lost relative I hadn’t seen for years, had forgotten what they looked like, but he still seemed like…”

“Family,” Dean answered for him. He watched Smith’s green eyes smiling with the same brotherly affection, and something about that made his heart soar.

“Yeah. You know? So I shot him down. Twice, actually. More than twice. I was really shitty to him, if I’m honest.” Smith shook his head sadly. “The poor guy was trying to make a connection, and it scared the shit out of me because I was afraid we already had one. And I was so self-centered and so shallow that I didn’t even notice what was going on. I think that’s when I learned to really listen to people. I always liked listening, I loved learning everything that was out there to learn. People are fascinating. But I was always too busy thinking what’s next. What’s next? What do I say to that? What do I do with that information? What’s next on my agenda? How many phone calls do I need to make today? If I spend twenty minutes on this call, I’ll still be able to make two more before lunch, and then if I make a cold call during lunch, I’ll get ahead and have time to do a soft sell for an old client this afternoon, get my numbers up. If I meet this goal just twenty minutes early, I can get started on the next one, make my first phone call of tomorrow tonight.”

Dean watched him in amazement. “That seems like a terrible life,” he said gruffly.

“It was. I mean, no, I loved it. I still love it. I kicked ass at it. I get a high from it like you probably do from rescuing some poor idiot from a vampire. But it never stopped. I lived and died by the clock, I never got the chance to actually hear people because I was too focused on the next thing. Goals, numbers. And the sad part is, I love people, and that’s why I was good at what I did. I love listening, but I never had time to hear. That’s why now I’m running a non-profit. I do what I always did well, but now it’s on my own terms, and it means so much more. You know I tried to hunt?”

The man tried not to laugh. “Yeah. Wes told us.”

Smith did not even bother to hold back his own snicker. “Yeah. Difference is, unlike me, Wes is a natural. Even your Sam said that, although it was like pulling teeth to get him to admit it.”

“Wes is a great tracker. Still not my first choice to go into combat with, but he can track the shit out of anything you want found. It’s cut down the legwork on hunts for the whole network of hunters. Dude is meticulous, and I’m pretty sure he never sleeps. He follows leads, tracks the evil little shits, and we descend on them as soon as we get his call. It’s a pretty good system, actually.”

The laugh was infectious, and for a moment, Dean found himself wondering if that was what he sounded like to others. “Yeah, and I appreciate you sometimes letting him kill something. It makes him happy.”

“He’s good. And it can’t be much fun tracking stuff if you’re never allowed to see it through yourself. We used to do that with our Sam till he was old enough and strong enough to hunt with us. He’d track and research and then get the information to me and Dad, and we’d go take the thing out. Worked that way for years. Sam even took Latin in school just so he could do an exorcism over speaker phone if necessary. Wes is doing the same thing, and we honestly appreciate him for it. He saves people.”

“Right. So I tried it. For a long time, I really tried. And it turns out that I hate the smell of motel rooms, and I can’t stand to be in a car with the same guy, no matter how much I love him, for hours on end, and I don’t have the balls to do anything illegal to get the job done. Turns out there isn’t a better way to do what you do. I tried financing our hunts on my own, tried doing only local stuff, tried staying at nicer places while on the road. None of it mattered. In the end, I just couldn’t hack it. After a few months of giving it the old college try, I told Wes to take the next one on his own, and I’d give him support as well as I could. And he shook my hand. That’s when I knew it was over, that weird fantasy of being a hero. Wes kindly muttered something about working the next one together, and then he shook my hand. I applied for a grant to begin SEED then, and I haven’t looked back.”

“You miss it?”

Smith grinned. “Being a hero? No. Because I never was. I saved a few people, maybe. Mainly Wes. Kid would have gotten himself killed a dozen or more times if I hadn’t been there, and I think that’s all that kept me in the game for as long as I was. I was scared Wes would need me one day and I wouldn’t be there because I had quit. Can’t say how relieved I was that you and Sam gave him a job to do that doesn’t involve him getting eaten by some monster. Now he does what he loves, what he’s good at, and is able to stay in the wings while real hunters do the heavy lifting. He’s a hero behind the scenes now, and I couldn’t be any prouder of him.”

“And you?”

The man paused while the waitress set their food down before them. He gave her a genuine smile and touched her arm very briefly. “Thank you, Jenna,” he said.

“Sure! Enjoy!”

Dean stabbed at his eggs, thinking that this was the most he had ever learned about his counterpart’s life in that other world. For all the time he had spent with the man, teaching him what he knew and enjoying social gatherings with him, he realized how little he knew him, and understood even less.

Smith shrugged, and gave him a handsome half-smile. “And I’m back to doing what I do,” he answered finally. “I fight evil my own way. In a much safer, much more Prius-and-latte way, that probably looks incredibly mundane and boring to a man like you. It probably looks like cowardice to a man like you.”

His green gaze narrowed as he found himself smiling at Smith with a strange admiration that he would not have hidden even if he could have. “That’s not true at all.” He grinned suddenly, and reached across the table to touch the back of the man’s hand briefly. Smith’s hand was strong but far softer than his own, and without all the odd-angled fingers from all the breaks. The contrast between their two hands was striking. Dean’s own skin was browner, more freckled, and there were scars that Smith’s hands were clean of. Dean really did not want to think of the symbolism behind that notion. Instead, he found himself looking at his own fingernails and comparing them to Smith’s. He could not help smiling. His own were jagged, ripped, one was actually missing, and each remaining one had flecks underneath in spite of his recent shower. Smith’s were well-manicured, all at the same length, and perfectly clean. Dean himself had not had to clip his own nails for quite a while, since he inevitably tore them and wore them down day to day.

He realized suddenly how long he had been touching the other man’s hand, and he jerked his own beat-up paw away quickly to grab at his coffee.

Smith was still smiling in that strange way of his. “We are so completely different,” he was murmuring. “I mean, did you see our hands? I’ve never shied away from hard work in my entire life, but you would never know it looking at my hands next to yours. Jesus, what must you think of me anyway?”

Dean’s eyes lifted to meet the man’s gaze, but found Smith’s own eyes focused on his fruit. He had never heard the man sound anything less than completely confident before. It was a shock to hear him comparing them and finding Dean to be the more worthy of the two. “You want to know?” he asked suddenly.

Smith raised his eyebrow, but not his eyes. “No. Probably not.” He pushed his plate a few inches away, as if he had lost his appetite. Instead, he mirrored Dean by cradling his coffee, and gave a sigh, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. “But okay. Let me have it.”

“I think you’re amazing.”

The irritated expression before him made it obvious Smith did not believe him. The man licked his lips and took a sip of his latte before speaking again. “Don’t patronize me, Dean. You might be able to kick my ass in your sleep, but I will punch you, and I’ll enjoy it.”

Dean’s laugh boomed out, and for the first time all morning, he did not feel tired. He sat back against the booth and looked at Smith. “I would never dare,” he responded honestly. “Smith, you ain’t a guy to mess with any more than I am. You just fight your battles in a different arena than I do, man. Sam told me about SEED, about how you spend a hundred hours a week raising funds for small charities.”

“I’m funding a charity that is an illegal front for some hunters out in New Mexico, by the way. Really hope they don’t get themselves audited.”

The laugh continued. “See? Sam says you have provided start-up and two years’ operating costs for seventy-some projects since you started SEED. And he says that includes a little project a guy named Sonny applied for last year, to expand his boy’s home.”

Smith smiled warmly, and lowered his eyes again. “Yes, well, he had a solid plan. Just needed some help crafting his business plan, and I didn’t mind doing that. We did it all over the phone and by email, I promise. His project should only take two years to complete, but if he needs more time or more funds, I’ll see that he gets it.”

It must have been because he was so sleep-deprived that Dean could feel tears stinging the backs of his eyes. He swallowed a gulp of coffee quickly. “I appreciate that. A lot. I guess Sam told you.”

“He was the one who sent Sonny my way, and asked me to give it some special attention. Said he’d consider it a personal favor if I looked into it, even if I determined his project didn’t fit into SEED’s mission. The guy needed less than $10K. I had it funded within a week, just needed some time to work out details and strengthen the guy’s grant application.”

Dean snorted softly. “Less than $10 grand, huh? I guess that’s nothing to a guy like you, used to dealing in a lot more zeros than that, but I can tell you it would have been completely out of reach for a guy like Sonny. Smith, if you really want to know what I think of you, this is it. I think you’re really amazing, that you’ve got everything I don’t, and you’re everything I could never have been, no matter what universe I was born into. It’s one thing to take out a monster and go home after for a shower and a beer. It’s completely different to fight against things like poverty and prejudice, homelessness and cancer. Those battles are never over. You never really get to just go home, and know you’re done. You got to get up every morning knowing there’s still a war on.”

“You ever feel done?”

“No,” Dean admitted. “But if I die bloody one day, another hunter will take my place. Not quite sure that good folks like Sonny could keep doing what they do without somebody like you. And you ain’t the only one who likes to listen. I really would like to hear more about what you do. You seem to think I’m the only Dean with war stories to tell.”

Smith laughed, and looked at Dean hard before he continued, as if deciding if his friend were just being polite, or if he really did want him to keep going. “There was a guy back in my world. I’ve looked him up; he doesn’t exist here. It’s a shame. Every universe needs a Misha Collins. Sometimes the way Castiel smiles reminds me of this guy, but I guess it’s just Castiel’s vessel who looks a little bit like him. Anyway, I don’t know. The guy is a philanthropist back home. Has this charity to do with random acts of kindness. He was a bit of an inspiration for me. Maybe not a real angel like Cas, but he sure seemed like one. I heard about him on public radio one day on my way to work, and I couldn’t get it out of my head all day, so I actually took a real lunch for once and looked into his organization. And I remember thinking, god, that’s the way to live. Working your ass off to make other people happier, safer, healthier. But till I met Wes, I never had the balls to leave the trajectory I was on. Hunting wasn’t for me. It was the wrong kind of adrenaline. I had some instinct for it, but I never felt truly good at it. But this? What I’m doing now? Seeding projects that never would have a chance otherwise, it’s like it’s what I was supposed to be. If I’m going to work seven days a week and eat lunch at my desk, I want it to be for something good. I’ve put in twenty-seven days in the last thirty, and I haven’t been sorry about a single minute.”

“You don’t care what I think of you, do you?”

He frowned for a moment, considering. “I do. I really do. But it doesn’t actually matter. I know I’m in the trenches, even if I’m using bluetooth instead of an M1911 A1 .45 ACP.”

Dean spat his coffee into his cup to avoid it being forced up his nose when he laughed. “Jesus. You do listen to everything, don’t you?”

Smith smiled, pleased. “It’s what I do. And I’m damn good at it.” He leaned in one last time and looked Dean directly into the eyes in a way that made his companion lose his breath for a moment. “You know what else I’m good at?”

He shook his head silently, feeling the back of his neck flushing.

“Let me take you out to dinner in a few days, and I’ll show you.”

Dean tried to take a breath, but found that he could not. He cleared his throat instead. “Give me time for some sleep and you can do that tonight.”

The pleasure in Smith’s smirk made his heart race.


	4. Mano a Mano

There was no raining down of sulfur, but short of that, Smith had to admit it had been a pretty celestial experience. Dean Winchester was every bit the legend he had heard so much about. And the best part was that he was staring down at Smith like he was the one in awe.

He smirked. "Hi, Dean."

The man rolled onto his back and panted toward the ceiling. A grunt was his response.

"You all right?"

"No."

Smith's chest shook with silent laughter.

"What?" Identical green eyes were peering at him when he turned his head.

"We are not the same person."

Dean rolled his eyes, then closed them. "Obviously."

"You're going to fall asleep on me, aren't you?"

The hunter grabbed at the sheets to untangle himself. "After what you just did? Hell yes. Then I'm going to take you again the minute I wake up. Fair warning."

Smith smiled. "Glad to know you're not a cuddler," he said dryly.

The eyes opened again. "What if I am?"

He gave the man an odd look. "You're not, are you?" He was unable to keep the dread from vocalizing.

Dean burst into laughter. "Wow. What a sweetheart!"

"No, I mean, I can. It's fine. I just...don't if I can get away with it."

"Nah, I'm good."

"Thank God."

This earned him another round of laughter from his freckled counterpart. "Jesus, you're shallow."

"Yeah, well, I'm so shallow that I'm going to go make some calls to secure some donations for struggling non-profits while you sleep off the best sex you've ever had."

The contented smile on Dean's face was his response, but he answered aloud anyway. "Whatever. Don't get cocky."

"I won't if you will."

Dean snorted. "Sleep first. Go save the world or something."

He forced himself to make what he still thought of as sales calls, then put in the call he really wanted to make.

"'Sup, Smithy bitch?"

"You make my name sound like an adjective. Is it synonymous with awesome or incredible?"

"You got laid."

Charlie never ceased to amaze him. He sprawled onto his couch lazily. "How can you tell?"

"Your voice. I don't think I've ever heard you sound so full of yourself."

He grinned. "Probably because about an hour ago, I was full of myself."

A vocal gasp came from the other end. "No!"

"True story."

"Get out! You bagged yourself a Winchester?"

"I also just secured over two million dollars in pledges from corporate sponsors, but I think I'm more proud of that first bit."

"Tell me everything!"

"Nope. But just so you know, he's even better than you think he is."

"Wow."

"I know, right?" He sighed happily. "I don't know if I'm going to Hell for this or what, but I gotta say, I am an amazing screw."

Charlie giggled. "I'm guessing you already suspected that."

"I did. But it's been confirmed."

"Glad you stopped being whiny over a clueless angel?"

"Who?"

"That's a yes. All right. Come over soon so I can get you drunk enough to give me details."

"Maybe. Charlie, all joking aside, I think I might actually like this guy. Should that scare me?"

"Well," she said after some thought, "it's Dean Winchester. So yeah, a little. But if he cares about you, you can bet he will do absolutely anything for you. So there's that. Ooh! Try to get keys to the bunker. Only like three people have that.”

Smith smiled to himself. “I don’t know that I rank that high yet.”

“See if he’ll let you drive the Impala.”

“I’d be terrified. And I don’t do well with a clutch.” He closed one eye as he considered. “Is the Impala a stick-shift or manual?”

Charlie sighed. “You’re like Bizarro Dean, you know that?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You coming over tomorrow?”

“No. Gotta work. Outside of a few phone calls, I pretty much took the whole day off today. SEED’s secretary nearly had a stroke when I told her I wouldn’t be in. Hey, can you still fix that website issue we’re having?”

“Already done, my friend.”

He took a deep breath and licked his lips, still tasting Dean on them. He closed his eyes. “I owe you lunch.”

“No. You owe me margaritas and details.”

“Deal,” he sighed. “He’s amazing, Charlie.”

Her voice was soft when she spoke again. “So are you, Smith.”

“But he’s the real thing.”

“Don’t do that. You’re different. But you’re amazing.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

He had hung up before he realized he had forgotten to ask about Dorothy, or any of the other things that were important to his friend. He frowned at himself, and made a note to call Charlie just to listen before the end of the day tomorrow. For now, he looked out the balcony door of his apartment into the darkness. He wondered how Wesson was, what he was tracking, and if he was safe.

He thought about Jo, wondered if she had any idea what had happened to him. Castiel had assured him that those left in the other world, his world, were likely unharmed by the event which had left him stranded here, but sometimes he wondered if the angel were just being kind. After all, there was nothing he and Wesson could do about it if it were not true. He had shared a beer with Sam once, who said he doubted Castiel were emotionally aware enough to lie about something like that, but the hunter had hesitated when asked if the angel could really even know for certain. Probably not, Sam had admitted quietly, but he had to believe that Castiel had better insight than any of the rest of them. From that conversation on, Smith had decided to believe it was so, that his sister and their parents and everyone else he knew from that old life, were fine and safe. Of course, if that were the case, they surely thought he had lost his mind and abandoned them, or that something sinister had happened to him. It would be breaking their hearts right now. Ellen and Bobby would be devastated, but at least they had one another. Jo would simply have her anger.

Smith found himself whispering into the dark pane of glass. “Castiel? Sam says you can hear prayers. I don’t know if you can hear me. Maybe you aren’t tuned in to prayers of guys more ordinary than the Winchesters. Or maybe you can’t hear somebody who is supposed to be in another reality right now. Or maybe listening to whining isn’t your thing. But I was hoping for…I don’t know. Some way to get a message to that other place. Hoping you might know a way I could let my sister know I’m all right. That I’m actually happy here.”

“It may be possible.”

He whirled around to find the angel standing three feet behind him. He stumbled backward into the glass door. “Jesus! They taught you how to make a creepy entrance in halo school, didn’t they? Tell the truth, Castiel, how many people have you given heart attacks to like that?”

The celestial’s head tilted absurdly. “Hello, Dean Smith.”

The man took a breath and then laughed it back out again. “I’m sorry, Castiel. I just don’t do well with surprises. It’s why I sucked at hunting.”

The blue eyes watched him for another moment. “Something about you is different,” he murmured.

Smith felt his face flush. “I’m, uh, I don’t know.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “To answer your request, it may be possible for me to visit your sister in a dream. She may or may not believe what she has heard once she awakens, but I find that humans often take comfort in listening to an angel tell them their loved one is well. She may not believe in it while awake, but she will yet gather comfort from it.”

“You can do that?”

“Possibly.”

“What would I have to do?”

Confusion played on Castiel’s face, reminding Smith of why he had not been able to make it past first base with the creature. “You would just craft a message for me to give to her.”

“You’d just do that? You wouldn’t want…anything?”

Dark eyebrows closed together in a frown. “If you’re referring to payment or favor, I require neither, Dean. You are my friend, and even more than that, you are Dean and Sam Winchester’s friend. I am happy to do whatever little I can to bring you peace.”

The smile spread across Smith’s face slowly as he looked down into those blue eyes. A hundred things crossed his thoughts. Castiel was kind and generous in addition to powerful. It was taken for granted that he was a friend of the Winchester men, as well as the angel’s. Castiel thought of him as Dean, not as Smith. He might get word to Jo, to ease her mind. Good things did happen occasionally.

“Then, please, Castiel. If you can find her, please tell her I’m safe and happy. Use the phrase ‘in a better place.’”

The angel looked confused again. “You would have me lie to your sister?”

The laugh barked out unexpectedly. “That’s awfully cynical for an angel of the Lord,” he teased. “Yes. Please tell her I’m in a better place. She won’t understand where I really am, and I’d like her to at least know I’m happy. She can take from that whatever she needs to. Then tell her to look out for Mom and Dad, but to live her own life. To be happy. Tell her that her big brother wants her to be happy.”

He received a curt nod. “I will do my best to deliver your message. If you do not hear from me, you may assume it reached her.”

“Thank you, Castiel. Really. Thank you.”

“Of course. If there’s nothing else I can do to help you, or Dean Winchester in the next room, I’ll go now.”

The blush was back. “How’d you know…you know…”

“That Dean Winchester is asleep in your bed?” The blue eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Smith had no idea what that meant, but for some reason, he liked that it was obvious to the angel. “Thanks again, Castiel. It would mean a lot to me if you could do this. And Wesson might have a similar request. I don’t know. Could you check on him?”

“Of course, Dean.” A flutter of wings took the angel away in a blink.

The man sighed happily. A burden he had not been aware he carried flew away with the angel. If Jo could hear from him, know he had not abandoned her purposely, everything was all right. He could be free to be happy here in this strange world. He could be happy to be a part of this world. He had not realized how much that detail had been holding him back for months. Now he had done what he could, and even if Castiel told him the attempt had failed, he had tried. It was the most he could hope for.

Smith stared back at the closed bedroom door. All of a sudden, the idea of cuddling was not quite so abhorrent as it had been an hour before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & kudos appreciated! Ty!
> 
> (As always, I have no idea if this story is done or not. Every time I think I'm done with a story, I come back and add something. But this is a good point to stop for now.)


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